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It is a curious thing, the scent of memory. It takes only a little to send us back in time—a trace of orange juice on my fingers, a hint of faded parchment under my bed. Each reminds me of childhood in its own strange way. I would sneak into the garden at midnight to pick the oranges, peeling them in the moonlight and eating them fresh. On the parchment, I would write my own fairy tales and keep them secret from my sister, tucking them into the shadows beneath my bed. Hiding them there.

She wouldn’t have understood their meaning. How could she? I hardly understood those stories myself—tales of swans and magic mirrors, yes, but also of betrayal and death. In some, my heroines would triumph, conquering great evil and dragging their prince back from Hell. In others, the prince himself would be great evil, and he and my heroine would rule Hell together, hand in hand and side by side.

Those stories were always my favorite.

When I wake that morning, the first thing I see is snow. It falls thickly, silently, from an overcast sky, and it kisses my cheeks in a gentle caress. It softens the sound of waves. Calloused fingers brush the hair from my face as I sit up, glancing around the boat. “How do you feel?” a deep, familiar voice asks.

The sound of that voice should set my heart racing. I never thought I would hear it again.

My heart, however, remains quiet. It remains still, and if I listen hard enough, I might think it doesn’t beat at all.

“Hungry,” I say, accepting the gilt mirror in his hand.

Though he tucks the blanket tighter beneath my legs, concerned, I do not feel it. In truth, I do not feel anything—not the cold, nor the warmth, nor even the heady rush of his touch. It set me aflame once. It dragged me down to Hell.

Lifting the mirror now, I gaze upon my reflection in the snow. I trace the row of dark stitches, examine the pale skin that is not my own—the slightly lighter brow and the emerald eye—and I smile.

Perhaps we can rule it together.